I want a glass of bubbles
To warm my icy throat
And thaw my tongue,
Which always seems to be too frozen
To say anything right.
And I want to chase the fire down
With your kisses.
I want my heart to slow down,
Just a little,
Enough to keep in time with my
Lazy thoughts of you.

I want to hear your voice
Like a velvet dress,
Clinging to my body
In whispers of never letting go.
And I want to feel cold again
While you go out for a smoke.

And I just want to watch you
As you tug on those **** sticks,
Looking like a kind of mystery
I could ponder over for years.

I want to watch the smoke come off your lips,
I think I’m learning to like the smell
Of your smoky clothes.
And suddenly I’m as addicted to you,
As you are to them.
And I’m jealous
Because I want to be your addiction
And suddenly I’m like a cigarette
And that’s weird.

Look at my seams: untouched, raw.
I sew them gently,
my hands were shaking
with almost fear
that I can't put
a needle through my soul
myself. Alone.

I am afraid to say, to be the one
who finally admits
that help comes forward,
if only I
let someone touch the seams,
and heal it,
and help me heal myself.

Panic stifles, suffocates.

My throat feels dry; a clump,
that brings disquiet in,
sticks there like a hull, a twig,
and moves its sharper edges
along my trembling soft insides.

"Get out!"
I would scream,
"Get out, worries and my fears.
Remain, serene feeling."

I follow myself around my flat,
feeding the time
my contemplations;
it’s already dark by 3 in the afternoon.

I carry my turmoil
with pins in my pockets,
i keep my hands inside.

Depression boils
all my frozen insides,
makes them bland
and chewable.